


Rivers Edge and Forest Eaves

by Dragonmad



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 20:36:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3824260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonmad/pseuds/Dragonmad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2941 of the Third Age - A hobbit leaves his home and goes on an adventure, a company set out on a quest to reclaim their home, and a simple bowman slays a dragon. This story you know. </p><p>But what happened in the years before? </p><p>This is a tale of beginnings, of myth, of chance meetings, and of love.<br/>It begins something like this. Many years ago, in the shadows of a forest, there was town upon a lake. And in that town a man was looking for a job...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2015 Barduil Big Bang. 
> 
> Art by the amazing [ Kimmi](http://scifies.tumblr.com/), who's fantastic art you'll find in Chapters 1 and 10!
> 
> Beta read by the darling [ Ministryhasfallen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MinistryHasFallen/pseuds/MinistryHasFallen) who is one of the best kinds of people. You're truly an inspiration.  
> Special thanks to [ Grimminsanity](http://grimminsanity.tumblr.com) who's been incredibly kind and supportive!  
> Thank you my loves! 
> 
> And thanks to all the friends who've been there cheering me on as I went on this crazy rollercoaster of emotion!

Art by [Kimmi](http://scifies.tumblr.com)

 

He needs work, and there's scarce enough of it in town these days. For several months he and his young wife make do with odd jobs here and there but eventually those too, cease.

In desperation he trawls the town, asking all. At every door, every lead, he's turned away. The sun is sinking towards the horizon when he sits, disconsolate on a small pier and stares into the cloudy water. As he sits he thinks of his wife, heavy with child, and the cold snap of promised winter.

An old salt sits not far off, splicing decaying rope, and eyes him warily. "Yer lookin fer work I hear."

"Aye," he replies, feeling a flutter of hope rise in his chest. "Know you of any?"

The old man grunts and shakes his head. "There's seldom to be found these days. Not since Dale fell."

He nods. They all know the stories. When he was younger he remembers the town being more vibrant, plentiful still, and only just teetering on brink of its long troubles.

"Still... Depends how desperate ye are for work."

The younger man looks at the elder questioningly. "Autumn is closing, and my wife is at home with our unborn child..."

The old salt tsks. "Aye," he nods sadly, before peering intently at the younger man. "Ye seem a sensible sort, mind... P'haps ye'll do."

"I'm stronger than I look, and I don't ask for much. If you know of anything, please! I'd be most grateful."

"Grateful, hmm. Might not be so when ye hear o' the job now mind." The old man chews on the stem of his pipe thoughtfully. "There's need of a new barge man..."

"A barge man! I've not heard news of that. If it’s true that’s a respectable job!"

The old salt shakes his head. "Is dangerous, is why. Not many will accept the position."

"Seems no more so than many a job."

"Aye, well... The barge runs up the Forest River."

A sudden hush falls across the busy pier and a shiver chases its way up his spine.

He turns to regard the far shore, where a smudge of darkness stands sentinel, the lake shadowed by its ominous gloom.

"Many are the tales of the forest, and none of them good..." He whispers, and others around them nod in agreement. A few make protective signs before scurrying back to work.

He bites his lip in thought. "A new barge man you say..." He swallows thickly and steels his nerve. "What happened to the old barge man?"

Another man nearby shakes his head fiercely, the whites of his eyes standing stark in the fading light. "None can say... ‘E disappeared some months ago and nary a sign has been seen since. His ship was stacked with empty barrels and set adrift to run down the river on its lonesome..."

The old salt glares at the interloper before turning back to his story, shaking his head. "Aye. Gettin’ cocky he was, bragging to all who would listen. Suspicion is he did sommat. Took sommat more like... The elves don't take too kindly to that sort o’ behaviour."

Bard turns again to study the shadowy forest. He thinks of his sweet wife as he fiddles with his worn and much repaired coat.

"What does the work require?"

\-----

 

She's upset with him.

They argue at length until she finally bursts into tears, collapsing before the fire as she weeps.

He does his best to reassure her. It'll be different – he tells her. He'll deliver the barrels to the riverbank, not too far from where it opens into the long lake. No lingering, and no setting foot within the eaves of the forest, this he promises.

The empties the elves can release back into the river and let the current do most of the work. There'll be no interaction - completely safe. All he has to do is be quick about it and mind his own business. The pay is good for the two of them, and the hours not so long. He'll return to her not long after night falls.

"They’ll capture you! Who knows what happens in that wood!”

He shakes his head and takes her smaller, more delicate hands in his. “They won’t. They need the service we provide. I know the tales well enough – don’t look too close, don’t step off the road, and don’t touch the food. All will be well, I swear it!”

“And what happens if you’re ensorcelled? You'll never return to me!”

"Not even magic could keep me away. I will always return to you, my love." He places a kiss upon her forehead in reassurance as new tears mar her pale cheeks. “Tis the only work available, and with the little one coming so soon…” he rests a hand on the roundness of her stomach and sighs. “I will not see either of you go hungry.”

It takes a while longer, but his darling wife eventually, tearfully, agrees to let him go.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Bard grew up in the shadows of the forest. Mirkwood, it was called, for once beneath its trees the twisted branches squeezed out any sign of natural light until a person was left, blinking fruitlessly, in the gloom. All children were warned of the dangers of the wood from an early age, and no man of Esgaroth would willingly set foot under it’s trees, except in dire need.

Un-named and unknown were the many creatures that called the wood it’s home. Birds and beasts of any wood there were, but also too darker things that waited for easy prey and lost travellers.

Not least of these, it was said, were the Elves.

They say that in days before the forest was once green and peaceful; that travellers could walk under its bows unhindered and unharmed. Yet this was long afore Bard was born and if it is true, he cannot say. A path runs from east to west of the forest seems to attest to these tales, though it is long since overgrown and none now use it. They say that the Elves were welcoming to any stranger, be he man or dwarf, that walked the woods in those younger days, when the forest bore another name.

There have been Elves in these parts, longer than there have been men – of this much they know. Stories passed down through the generations of the founding of Esgaroth, of Dale, and of Erebor – all have references and mention of the Elves being there. In those days an alliance existed between them all, and trade was bountiful – the North was once powerful and strong, it’s wealth long reaching across many kingdoms of Middle-Earth.

It is not so now.

Many things changed. Erebor grew frugal and wary of its neighbours, whilst the pride of the Dale-folk slowly undid many of its grander labours. And to the south, almost unnoticed at first, the forest began to darken.

The trees began to twist and warp, and a dark dread began to issue forth from the southern reaches, stretching greedy fingers ever northward. Slowly, over untold years, the darkness grew stronger and the light retreated.

Woodsmen and hunters alike fled their forest homes, or disappeared altogether, the survivors gibbering in fear. The path through the forest was lost and eventually none would dare enter the forest eaves – not for gold, or food, – except for the exceedingly foolish and greedy. Of these there were several, and not a one of them returned.

But that’s not all the old tales tell.

Many are the warnings about the elves and least not of all, their king. Elves, they say, are fey and fickle - quick to laugh and quick to anger, and if you should do the latter it is at your peril.

Should you encounter these fey folk, there are strict rules you should follow if you hope to escape unscathed. Firstly, do not look directly into their eyes, for their gaze will strip you bare and read even your innermost thoughts. The sound of their voice in song will ensnare you faster than thought, and you will be bound to their will - a puppet to do with as they please. Do not partake of their food, nor their drink, for if you do you shall never again leave - and a great weariness will weigh your eyes until at last you slumber and exist only in dreams.

Many are they who attempted to capture an elf, for their beauty is incomparable to mortal man. Yet like a flicker of light on the lake they are impossible to keep, and their retribution should you attempt to do so, swift.

Deep within the forest lives their mighty king, both fell and fair to look upon. His presence is like an arctic chill, they say, his voice like the rumble of thunder and peril falls on any who hear it. He reigns his realm with strict control, and under his hands the forest yet flourishes. Bird, beast, trees, and stone, - all are said to bend to the command of the Elven king.

It is with this knowledge in mind that Bard warily makes his way up river, flinching at every hint of motion, senses straining, and knuckles white upon the barge pole. He has always considered himself a logical man, not prone to flights of fancy or old wives tales. Yet as the river takes him further from the familiar shore of the long lake, the stories and their warnings return to prey upon his mind.

He reaches the drop site and quickly loops a mooring rope over a nearby boulder. He scans the shoreline, but apart from the cawing of a massive crow, there’s nothing out of the ordinary.

As quick as he can he lays the walkway and begins to roll the barrels onto the shore. It isn’t the easiest task, the barrels are large and cumbersome and he fleetingly wishes there was someone else to assist him. By the time he completes the task the sun is high in the sky and he’s sweating profusely.

He sits for a minute, gaining his breath as he swigs the stale water from his skin.

The hairs upon the back of his neck stand on end, and he’s aware that an unnatural quiet has fallen across the surrounds. He reaches for his bow, and strings it uneasily, eyes raking the shore. There’s a crack of a twig behind him and he whips about, arrow knocked and drawn, but there’s nothing there.

His heart is galloping in his chest as he slowly lowers his bow. He doesn’t quite run back to the boat, but if he’s moving with unusual speed then there’s none here to judge him. He casts off as fast as he can, and punts himself into deeper water.

As he turns to adjust the sail, there’s a flash of movement in the forest edge, a pale light shining through the trees, he wrenches his gaze away and stares determinedly down river, not looking back.

\-----------

 

The next day a single barrel floats down the river. Inside is payment - a large bag filled with coin, and a note written in an elegant westron hand.

“We hereby accept the continuation of our previously negotiated trade agreement. We hope your newest bargeman is more reliable than your last.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

It works like this:

Far to the south-east, far from the southern reaches of the Mirkwood, and farther still from the distant Iron Hills, is a little populated part of the world, called Dorwinion.

Bard has never been there himself, for it is a long way to travel, but the reputation of this land is well known, and their gardens are said to be some of the most beautiful in the whole of Middle-Earth, and their wares incredibly famous. 

Food of all sorts is bountiful there, and many different types of crops are grown. However, it is here that the Dorwinion people grow their most famous product – for which they are named the Land of Wine.

The specialised large purple grapes grow only on these gentle rolling slopes, where the mild climate and fertile soil combines to produce a most enviable product. Of the cultivation and pressing of the fruit, Bard knows little, but the end result is a complex and potent wine. Richer in flavour and dark in colour, the wine is exalted by many, and sought after by more.

However there was a problem for these people. Dorwinion was a landlocked country and far removed from civilisation. The transportation of wine was a slow and difficult thing by horse and cart. Often entire shipments would be lost and so another way had to be found.

There was one solution, and Dale was perfectly placed for it. By using the River Running, large shipment’s could be made – far larger than any carthorse could pull, and far faster than any journey by road. 

The Dorwinion merchants would bring the wine to Dale in large boats via the river, where the shipment would then be delivered and paid for in full by the tradesmen of Dale. These tradesmen would then work together to send caravans up north to Erebor, and west to Mirkwood. The dwarves and elves would then pay the men of Dale a slightly increased fee for the shipments. It was a profitable trade, and while there were the occasional grumblings over the additional price, the distance was too far and too perilous for them to send traders of their own.

This used to be the source of much of Dale’s wealth, reaping the heavy advantage of being between several great and powerful lands. Dale was the perfect trading spot for weary travellers and lazy tradesmen, who would set up in the famous market-halls to sell their wares, and his steady flow of peoples of all races meant that luxury was in abundance. It was not to last.

When Erebor fell, Dale fell with it. 

The survivors of Dale moved to Esgaroth, near the shore of the long lake, looking to the increased distance and the proximity of the water for protection from the fires of the dragon.

Those survivors would face a perilous future, for Dale had produced very little of it’s own produce, relying instead on the busy marketplace and the generosity of the neighbouring trade partners to supply much of what it needed. With those partners gone, the people realised that they would need to find an alternate source of food. That source would come from the lake itself.

Slowly, as more and more time was spent upon the lake, cultivating the fish and crayfish within, moorings, shacks, and temporary dwellings began to grow upon the lake’s surface. Within five years of the dragon’s coming, the beginnings of what would be known as Lake Town, began to emerge.

When Dale was destroyed the vital currency with Dorwinion was lost for many years. It was only upon the creation of Laketown that some enterprising soul had sought to recommence the profitable wine trade, with their only remaining trade partner – the elves of Mirkwood.

Now, the system is slightly different. The men of Dorwinion still sail down the river, but instead they stop upon the water instead of near the northern shore, as used to happen. Here, Bard meets with them every few weeks, and together they begin to transfer the large and heavy barrels, from the Dorwinion ship to his own humble barge. He then escorts them to the town hall, where the Master takes over, greeting the men obsequiously and inviting them to a meal – and a sample of their wares, – before he pays them for their work.

Depending upon the tide Bard waits the night near the Forest River, or heads up immediately to deliver the wine to the drop site for the elves.

The Elves have their own system, presumably, for the barrels are always collected, and the empty casks always stand patiently awaiting his arrival.


	4. Chapter 4

Bard shifts uncomfortably where he’s standing in the great office, wishing for nothing more than to collect his share and leave.

He’s lived in the town since birth, and has seen the man dubbed the Master of Laketown from afar more times than he can count, but never this close up. Bard likes to think he’s fairly open minded, but there’s something about the way the man opposite holds himself, - how his eyes glint at the sight of the bag, how the hair on his head seems slick with oil, combed across a balding spate, - that rankles.

His stomach churns with distaste as he reluctantly delivers the payment to the Master, and the note from the Elves with it. The man glances at the note dismissively, his fingers twitching eagerly over the bag of gold.

Eventually tearing his gaze away from the glinting heap, the Master turns to eye Bard. “What’s your name, bargeman?” 

“Bard, sir.”

“Baaaard,” the Master drawls, lacing his hands above his portly stomach.  
"Well. Well, well, well, well.... You've done a good thing, hm. Yes. And on behalf of Laketown I thank you personally."

"There's no need sir. A job needs doing. "

"Quite, yes! Have you lived here long, Bird?” He continues before Bard can correct him. “You probably don’t remember the days from before, hm? Well. We didn’t always live like this, you know. No, no. Once we were one of the most prosperous towns this side of the Misty Mountains. Now, that’s changed, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

The Master pours himself a glass of wine but doesn’t offer Bard any as he continues. “You seem like smart and civic minded-man. And as a smart civic-minded man, I’m sure you’ll want what’s best for this town – much like all of us! Therefore, I needn't impress upon you Brand -”

"Bard."

"- that Laketown needs this treaty with the Wood, hm? They're of huge strateeegic importance to our continuation." The Master plays with a few coins that spill forth from the bag, idly. “Do you understand?”

"I think so, yes."

"Good. Behave and you'll be duly rewarded." the Master leans forward suddenly and bares his yellowed teeth in a parody of a smile. "But misbehave in any way, jeopardise this relationship, and I will personally see to it that you are locked in a cell for the rest of your miserable little life. Do I make myself clear, Brand?"

It galls to be talked down to by such a man as this, a man who was elected by the people but has only stayed there through nefarious means. However, he has little choice in the matter. He is a nobody in a small town, with a pregnant wife. He’s vulnerable. So, Bard grits his teeth and gives a short nod. "Yessir."

The Master stares at him for several minutes, and Bard begins to wonder if something in his expression has given away his inner thoughts. Eventually, he waves dismissively. "Hmph. Alright you may go.”

On thin ice he may be, but Bard stays where he is, pointedly looking to the pile of gold spilling across the masters desk.

"Ah, yes. Of course. For services rendered!" He counts out five coins which he then slides across the desk at Bard before turning and beginning to count his own mounding pile.

Stepping forward he scoops up the coins, turning briskly on his heel and all but running from the foetid confines of the town hall.

Emerging into the night air he takes a deep breath and gazes out across the busy town square. This may, he reflects, be the most odious part of the job.

He hurries down towards the market, his pocket rattling. It’ll be over a fortnight afore he needs to travel up river again and he plans to put his newfound riches to good use.

~~~~~~~~

 

They don’t just make it through the winter. They flourish.

Late in the autumn, as the last burnished leaves are floating gently to spin across the calm waters of the lake, the baby arrives.

He’s kicked out of their home by a stern faced Martha, their elderly neighbour turned midwife. Helpless, Bard is left to pace the living area of his neighbour’s house, waiting and watching the sun sinks below the horizon.

Eventually, the door is opened, and his world is forever changed.

Sitting in their bed, her sweat-soaked hair plastered to her face, and beaming with contentment is the loveliest vision he’s ever seen.

He enters the room slowly, cautiously. “Astrid, are you – how are you, are you alright? Can I get you anything?”

She shakes her head, smile still playing around her lips and her eyes dancing with mirth. “No you old fusspot. Come, sit and say hello to our daughter.”

Bard staggers the last few steps to the bed, falling onto it with a thump. “Daughter?” he echoes blankly.

Astrid smiles and pushes aside a bundle of blankets to reveal a small round face. “Say hello to your Da, little one.”

He stares in wondrous rapture at the tiny being, who fusses slightly in Astrid’s arms. As carefully as he’s able he lets his fingers – which seems all too large and rough in comparison – gently come to rest on the small velvet soft cheek. 

“Our daughter.” He whispers.

And since that day, three moon cycles ago, not a day goes by where he doesn’t thank to gods for being so incredibly blessed. 

He watches as his darling Astrid putter about their small cottage, a smile on her face as she coos over little Sigrid, and goes about the preparation for their evening meal.

After a few rounds of barrel collecting, Bard is finally able to stop flinching at every flutter of wings, or crack and snap coming from the forest. Now the way to and from the Long Lake is as familiar to him as the most well paved road, and he navigates it with ease. He’s on friendly terms with the Dorwinion traders, and often they swap news and stories of the daily goings on, sharing rations and a good laugh or two.

His pay still seems insufficient compared to the Masters share, but it’s enough. Never before have they been so comfortable, and the ease in financial worries can be seen in the bubbling pot over the hearth fire, and the faint humming as they go about their duties.

It’s possible, Bard reflects as Astrid scolds him for cutting up the carrots incorrectly, that taking this job is the best thing he’s ever done.


	5. Chapter 5

He’s not long in the job when it happens.

He’s late to deposit the barrels – Sigrid has been unwell, which has meant long sleepless nights trying to coax her back to sleep, or spent staying up with her telling her stories to try and calm her down.

This of course means that he oversleeps.

He misses the tide, and has to fight his way up the river, half punting the heavy barge up the waterway.

When he finally gets to the drop site, he’s exhausted, and slow to unload. He’s almost done though, when the sound of laughter freezes him in his tracks.

There, walking down the riverbank, is a group of elves.  
Bard stares, frozen to the spot.

The elves stop suddenly when they spot him, and stare back at him.

The silence stretches.

Bard forces himself to relax, and continue breathing. These elves look nothing like how he imagined. Nor are they anything near as fearsome as the tales describe.

Garbed in shades of green and brown, these elves are dark haired and stand near the height of men. Their faces are comely, he notes, and their voices lilt pleasantly as they’d bantered back and forth. Apart from that, though, they look almost…ordinary.

After a brief and frantic whispered conversation one of the elves is jostled forward, and he gives a slight bow.

Bard returns the gesture.

“Well met,” the elf says, in highly accented Westron.

Bard is so startled he almost drops the barrel on his foot. “Uh – yes. Hello.”

The elf’s eyes flick to the barrel and back to Bard, and he grins. “We – help?”

Bard looks at the other two elves and then back to the speaker. He’s already broken almost every promise he’s made to Astrid. ‘Sink or swim.’ He decides.  
“That’d be most welcome.”

With a nod to Bard, the elf turns and gestures to it’s fellows and they come forward. Together they make light work of the remaining barrels.

The elves, it turns out, have their own raft, and it only seems fair that after their help, Bard return the favour.

They smile and thank him, and offer him some of their food, but Bard shakes his head and refuses. He watches them leave.

“Huh.” He says. “ So those are elves.”

 

~~~~~~~~

 

The years turn, and life in Lake Town goes on. Bard is very happy with his lot in life, and every day he watches Sigrid grow and flourish is a wonder. And then comes the happy day when Astrid announces the news that she’s pregnant once more.

He spins her around the room as his girls laugh, and Sigrid cheers and claps her hands. He sweeps her up into his arms and peppers her face with kisses as she wriggles and squeals.

It’s with this knowledge that he delivers the latest round of barrels to the shore and sits a while on its bank, catching his breath. The work never gets easier and on his dwindling rations it's even worse than normal.

He thinks of his young family, of Astrid once more heavy with child, and once more forced to endure too much. He thinks of his gorgeous Sigrid, so young, yet already too familiar with the hardships of life upon the Long Lake. He rubs his eyes in frustration at the thought.

The winter this year was tough and the spring so wet it has flooded the fields, rotting the crops as they yet began to ripen. The whole town is starving. He's been cutting back on his own share so that his girls will have more, but it’s not enough. They need everyone to pitch in where they can, never taking more than is absolutely necessary.

There's not enough fish in the lake to feed them all at this time of year, and only the wealthiest can afford their price even if there were.

The trips up river have become a welcome escape from the despair lying heavy over the town, and he revels in the cool air and quiet lap of the water against the shore. ‘Yet I'd be more thankful still for the promise of a full belly on my return home,’ he thinks.

As if summoned by his very thought, there's the rustling of shrubs behind him in the forest. Carefully he turns to glance behind to see a rabbit, nibbling at the sickly shoots that emerge from the sodden ground. Bard can hardly believe his luck, and moving as carefully as he dares he reaches slowly for his bow.

The rabbit twitches its ear in his direction but is content to continue on with it’s munching.

Breath held in anticipation, he feels blindly behind him for the familiar wood, but when he pulls the bow refuses to come, stuck beneath damp canvas and coiled rope. With a curse he turns and rips it from it’s spot, knocking an arrow and drawing the string taut.

It’s too late. The sound has startled the rabbit, and with a flick of it’s white tail, the animal disappears back into the forest. A scream of frustration rips from his throat. He grabs a nearby rock and throws it as far as he can into the river, cursing as viciously as he knows how. Sliding down, he tugs discouraged at his hair and tries to ignore the gnawing ache of hunger growing ever stronger. One small rabbit wasn’t large enough to feed all three of them adequately, but it would’ve been enough to take the edge off. Enough to bring a smile to the faces of those he loves…

With a sigh he stares despondently at the spot where the rabbit disappeared.

An idle breeze ruffles the leaves of trees enticingly, and the call of birds can be heard faintly in the distance. If there’s rabbit, then surely there’s larger game within the forest depth. He’s an experienced hunter. Surely there’s something nearby. He needn’t go far. Perhaps he can find the rabbit again…

He warily looks from his boat to the smudged darkness of the forest eaves. Stringing his bow he takes a few deep breaths, walking like a man condemned towards its forbidding depths.

He won't go far.

Just a short distance.

They need food, and there's plenty of game within the forest.

They need to eat.

Steeling himself, he takes a final breath, hovering on the edge of the tree line.

‘For the girls,’ he thinks, and steps within.


	6. Chapter 6

As he moved into the forest the light from behind seems to grow dimmer, until finally he blinks rapidly to try to adjust his sight to the gloom. The trees tangle their branches high above his head, crowding out the light, and lichen and moss trailed in eerie tendrils to wave about his face.

The air felt heavy and oppressively damp, weighing heavily on the surrounds until the only sound comes from the repetitive thump of his feet on the thick leafy carpet. He questions whether he’s made the right choice, but the rumble of his stomach urges him to continue.

He’ll give it a couple of hours. If he doesn’t find anything he’ll still be close enough to the forest edge to make his way back.

Bard takes his knife and makes a cut on the bole the trees as he goes, an old woodsmen trick he’d been taught in his youth, to find his way back to the boat. 

Or at least that’s the idea. He’s walked for only a couple of hours before he stumbles across a tree with a very familiar cut. Disconcerted he stops, running a hand over the incision before he steps back, and turns on the spot.

The forest stands silent and still, giving away nothing.

Looking up at the canopy high overhead not even a glimpse of the sun can be seen, even though it’s not yet mid-day and the sun had been shining strongly on entry into the woods. He takes his knife out once again and marks the tree with a second symbol beneath the first.

With a deep breath he puts the tree with the mark to his back and sets off in a new direction, only to stumble moments later into a familiar space.

With a feeling of dread he approaches, and runs his hands over the two marks.

The trees are playing tricks on him.

Swallowing a flutter of fear, he’s about to turn and try a new direction when there, on the damp forest floor, is the faint impression of a hoof.

Crouching above it, he brushes away some leaf litter to reveal another. A deer, and a sizable one at that, has passed his way and not too long ago judging by the freshness of the trail.

Stooping low he follows the tracks, eager to find the maker, and in his haste he forgets to mark the trees.

When he next glances up he’s in a clearing, the remains of a fallen tree creating a tiny break in the canopy, the light shining softly through and for one brief moment he feels a gust of fresh air and feels enervated. A flicker of light catches his eye and he turns in it’s direction. 

Soundlessly, a large white stag steps out of the glimmering gloom, his antlers rising majestically high above him. Unable to believe his luck, Bard raises his bow and draws back the string but something stops him from releasing it. 

Man and beast meet gazes, and there's an intelligence there that belongs to no ordinary forest creature. Time seems to stop and for long endless minutes the two remain locked motionless beneath the swaying branches of the forest. 

Eventually the man lowers his weapon, until it rests on the forest ground at his feet. He bows, deep from the waist, unsure of the sudden impulse but knowing somehow it is the right thing to do. The stag eyes him calmly before turning slowly and walking regally back in the direction it first appeared. Before it can be lost entirely it turns it's majestic head to look at him once more before walking slowly through the trees. 

There's a powerful urge to follow, and figuring he's lost already he picks up his bow once more and cautiously follows. 

The stag walks on, seemingly uncaring of the human following it. Only the occasional flick of an ear reveals the animal's awareness of his continued presence. 

They meander on for some time in weird companionship, the hart stopping now and then as if waiting for Bard to catch up as he scrambles and slips over the knotted roots of trees. It is during one of these instances that Bard realizes that the forest seems brighter and the air fresher. He looks with wonder at the stag who continues to a patch to the right. 

Bard wonders what he's supposed to do next for the animal makes no further move. If he wasn't already certain he is now assured that this is no ordinary animal, for the deer remains far too still as he creeps ever nearer. 

Following that dark intelligent gaze, he goes to investigate the area, pushing a dense fern aside. There before him, is a young beech sapling, its leaves a vibrant green. And there below its slender branches, faint beneath the shadowed eves, are the well worn markings of a path. 

His breath catches in his throat and he turns to give thanks. 

The stag however, is gone.


	7. Chapter 7

 

He follows the path for a while; stopping now and then to peer at the ground to make sure he hasn’t gone too far astray. Suddenly a noise begins to distinguish itself from the gloom, a beat that he realises with a start that he’s been feeling more than hearing for some time now.

He continues forward, feeling his exhaustion fall away. Renewed, he hurries, stumbling through the twisted undergrowth and pushing branches aside with increasing fervour. The sound of laughter suddenly seems to float through the air, and with a thrill he chases after the elusive sound.

A flickering light is growing in the distance, the drums pound louder, and his heart quickens to match the driving rhythm.

The smell of roasting meat hits him like a physical blow and he feels almost faint with the promise of it. His mouth waters, and a loud rumbling growl echoes from his stomach. The laughter is growing louder, and the now as well as drums he can hear the sound of many instruments blending together in a sweeping symphony.

There in a glade within the middle of the forest, is a large host of elves. They dance and twirl around the green in large circles around a heaped bonfire that crackles and spits it’s embers high into the air. Weaving to and fro in a complicated dance, their hair streams like banners behind them, and the flickering light of the fire catches upon it and upon their fair clothes as they laugh merrily, their voices raised joyously in song.

At the end of the glade lies a low table piled high with sumptuous dishes; platters of venison, and dishes of such a vast array beyond count, or description, that he marvels at their abundance. Seated along the grand length of that table are a group of elves, their garb finer than other, all of them talking merrily amongst themselves. And at the head of this long table sits one who is separate, a faint smile curling his lips as he watches the proceedings, a crown of flowers upon his golden hair.

The Elven-king, Bard realises with a start.

Turning his gaze back to the dancers, Bard stands transfixed within the shadows of the trees. The pounding of drums seems to suddenly change tempo, speeding up as the dancers whirl, faster and faster before the fire. The rhythm sweeps through him until Bard feels like running, like moving to the sound that echoes through the forest and resounds in his head. He breathes deeply, inhaling the smell of wood smoke, and of crushed greenery, until unbidden his eyes fall closed and images dance like starbursts behind his lids; of the swaying of green branches, the warm light flicking over the green grass underfoot, and the pounding of hooves as they run through the forest.

The music stops, and Bard reels with the suddenness of it.  He catches himself on the bole of a nearby tree, but this proves to be his undoing. The snap of the twig beneath his hand seems to echo loudly through the glade, and for a moment, everything freezes.

A cry of alarm is raised, and with a whoosh the lights go out and all is plunged into darkness.

 

~~~~~~~~

 

He curses himself for a fool as he stumbles helplessly through the darkness. There’s no sign of the elves, and the only sound to be heard is his own frantic breathing.He trips over a particularly vicious root and falls to the forest floor.

Swearing fit to make a sailor blush, he pushes himself up to his knees, rests his head in his hands, rubbing harshly at his eyes.

There’s no point continuing on in the dark. He’s going to have to stay where he is and hope that with the green glow of morning he’ll be able to find the path once more.

And if not…

Well, that doesn’t bear thinking about just yet. ‘One step at a time, Bard.’ He tells himself, and tries to tamp down the panic that threatens to claw its way up his throat.

He settles back against a nearby trunk, pulling his coat tight about himself and lets his breathing slow.

Falling into a light doze he drifts until some unknown instinct wakes him, urging him to wakefulness. Bard has spent enough time on the water to know that a gut feeling is often the difference between life and death, and so when the feeling prickles uneasily down his spine, he pays close attention.

He turns to peer behind him, and sure enough, there faintly flickering in the distance, is the glow of bonfire.

Indecision grips him for a minute as he debates his options, until with a huff he gets once more to his feet. It’s more than probable that it’ll all be for naught, but he knows he won’t forgive himself if he doesn’t try.

He walks cautiously towards the light, and begins to hum an old fishing song. The music from the clearing stops, but the lights stay on, and so he walks slowly forward, hands raised by his head in a clear sign of surrender as he now begins to sing.

 

_The wind from the northlands is cruel and smiting_

_And the young lambs we scarcely can save,_

_While the wind from the eastlands is callous and blighting_

_And it adds a full foot to the wave._

_Oh, sweet west wind singing,_

_Is our hooker that skims light and free._

_So raise high a chorus,_

_The way lies before us,_

_With a boat full of spoil from the deep._

(* a performance of the Wexford Fishing Song can be heard [here](https://youtu.be/68oCD1KvPtY).)

 

There’s a titter of bird-like language, as the elves finally catch sight of him, holding hurried conversations behind their hands. A few even blatantly begin pointing at him as he steps nervously into the ring of light.

He bows cautiously, as well as he’s able whilst keeping his hands in plain sight. “Forgive my intrusion, fair people... I mean you no harm.”

Silence greets him, and several heads turn to the long banquet table and the pale haired figure seated there.

Bard bows again to the Elven-king, and addresses him personally.

“I apologise for disturbing your celebration, your majesty. I must ask for your assistance – I came looking for food for my family, and have gotten lost in this….” He halts abruptly, realising that insulting the forest the elves live in is potentially the wrong way to curry favour. From the carefully arched brow on the elven-king’s face, he too is waiting for the slip.  “Forest.”  He finishes, lamely.

The Elven-king tilts his head, almost bird-like, and the pale unnatural gaze seems to sear straight into his very soul. The King stands slowly, and raises a hand gracefully to hush the murmurs that rustle through the glade.

A look of mischief enters the elf’s gaze, and Bard feels his heart sink. “Wait!” he begs, but to no avail.

Raising his arms high the Elven-king claps his hands once, sharply above his head, and they are plunged once more into darkness.

 

~~~~~~~~

 

Bard wakes reluctantly, his body stretching luxuriously. The soft morning light dapples the leaf-strewn ground and with a happy sigh he breathes in the crisp morning air, relaxed and refreshed as he hasn't been for years untold.

With a jolt he remembers suddenly where he is and sits up in alarm.

There's absolutely no sign of anyone having been in the clearing. No remains of a bonfire, or of the large feast Bard knows took place here.

“Hello?” He calls.

None answer.

With a sigh he runs his hands through his hair, kicking at small stone. As he does his eyes fall to the far side of the clearing, where once had stood a long table.

There sitting innocently at the edge of the glade, lie several bags of food. Behind it, winding its way through the trees is a small dirt path that he swears had not existed the night before. Running over, he kneels down to investigate the parcels. Inside is fresh grain, and vegetables enough to feed his family and some of his neighbours comfortably, and he disbelievingly reaches a hand out to touch the food to make sure he isn’t still dreaming.

He feels his eyes sting hotly gratitude has to swallow forcefully around the knot in his throat as he looks about once more.

"Thank you!" He calls into the empty forest, unsure if any can hear him. "Thank you so much. I won't forget this kindness!"

He bows as best he can before hurriedly collecting the packs and heading down the path, the itch of watching eyes settling between his shoulderblades.

When he returns to the Lake, Astrid scolds him through her tears, reprimanding him for scaring her so as she peppers his face with kisses. Her anger cools quickly when he shows her the packs of food, - though she pointedly doesn’t ask where he got it from - and together with their neighbours they have a small feast of their own that night, their spirits high and laughter flowing freely.

For several months after whenever Bard closes his eyes to sleep it’s to the sound of melodic laughter, of pipes and drums echoing with the beat of his heart, and of a golden haired mysterious figure with a crown of spring flowers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Bard’s song is based on the Wexford Fishing Song, with a couple of word changes to make it slightly more in keeping with Middle-Earth.


	8. Chapter 8

The wheel turns, and spring flows into heady summer days. The sun finally makes its appearance late in the season, and some of the crops recover in time for harvest. Astrid’s girth grows, and Sigrid sprouts like a beanstalk, growing taller and faster than Bard can believe, toddling around the cottage after her mother and occasionally assisting with simple chores.

He runs twice more up and down the river, waiting each time with the barrels in the hopes of seeing the raft elves once more to give his thanks. But they never appear. He delays as long as possible before eventually turning for home once more, feeling cheated.

Sitting beside the hearth fire, he wonders what he might offer. What does one give as thanks to a people who stop you and your family from starving?

“Wha’s wrong, Da?”

Bard blinks out of his stupor and turns to find Sigrid standing by his knee, looking up at him with wide, worried eyes. He smiles at her and scoops her into his lap.

“Nothing’s wrong, my sweet girl. Ahh, you’re getting so big! Soon you shan’t fit in my lap at all!”

“No.” Sigrid declares, crossing her arms and glaring at him sternly. “I fit!”   
She clambers about on his lap so that she can face him, and Bard winces as sharp bony knees and sharper elbows poke and prod, but he helps her settle once more, and looks at her. “What is it, my lamb?”

“You’re sad.” She states.

So young, and already so concerned for the welfare of others, Bard can’t help but kiss her brow as he cuddles her close. “I’m not sad, little one. Just thinking very hard.”

She looks at him curiously and he tries to think how best to explain it.

“I’m trying to figure out what to get someone who was very kind for us. But I don’t know what they would like.”

Sigrid frowns, and the look is so similar to the one he wears when he’s thinking that he can hear Astrid stifling a giggle from across the room. He sends her a grin and a quick wink.

“I’ll help.” Sigrid finally declares, after a few moments of thoughtful silence. 

“That’s a great relief. Thank you, my lamb.”

He thinks no more of it listening instead as Astrid gleefully updates him about the village gossip, including the most recent scandal involving the Braga’s wife. 

He’s putting a sleepy Sigrid to bed, when all of a sudden she sits up. Clambering out from beneath the quilted blanket, she hops off the bed and then under it. Watching with bemusement and curiosity, he waits patiently for her to reappear. When she eventually emerges from beneath the small cot, he sits with her on the edge of the mattress.

“What do you have there?”

She stares solemnly at him. “It’s my treasure jar.” She says upending the jar onto her bed starts sorting through it. “You can have some of it for your gift.”

He runs his hand over the collection of shells, feathers, oddly shaped pebbles, and smoothed lake glass, all of which were painstakingly handpicked from the shoreline. 

He can’t bear to turn her down. “Why don’t you help me select something?”

They sort through the small pile, pulling out bits and pieces. Taking a small green ribbon, she holds out several of her treasures, and Bard dutifully knots them on to the ribbon as per her direction. Satisfied, Sigrid gives a nod and scoops the remaining items back into her jar and puts it back in her secret hiding spot.

Bard tucks her into bed, kissing her on the forehead before retreating, the ribbon and its treasures safely nestled in his pocket. 

~~~~~

 

He sits on the bank, having a brief lunch of cheese and bread, as he listens to the river running melodically by.

The prickling unease of eyes watching him has him turning and there, under the forest eaves, stands the white hart.

At first he wonders if it’s not a different animal, for surely there are many deer living in the forest. However there’s something about this creature in particular that reassures him. 

In the light of the day he can clearly see sixteen points gracing the tall antlers above the animal’s head. The animal regards him curiously in turn, an ear swivelling forward, and then back again towards some unknown sound in the forest.

Bard stands, slowly so as not to startle it, hands carefully by his sides. “Hello again, beauty.” 

With a small snort, the animal turns slowly and walks back into the forest. Bard watches it go and feels a strange longing to follow. He hovers a moment in indecision when he remembers the small satchel of gifts sitting in the boat. ‘Perhaps’ he muses, ‘the stag can help me find the elves a second time.’

Decided, he slings the satchel over his shoulder and checks the string of his bow before making his way beneath the trees.

The white hart has waited for him not far into the forest, idly blinking at him as he clumsily picks his way through. When he’s within a few feet the stag moves on, picking it’s way through the trees with ease.

Once more the weight of the forest seems to press in on him, the light slowly fading until it’s impossible to determine day from night. Occasionally a shard of light will pierce the gloom, blindingly bright. Disorienting in the extreme, he blinks away sun spots from his vision, careful to not lose sight of his companion.

It’s after one such incident that he realises with a start, that the stag is gone.

“You didn’t shoot it.”

Bard likes to imagine he doesn’t do anything as embarrassing as yelp, but from the expression of carefully contained amusement on the elf’s face he suspects he did. He glares at the elf in response.

“It’s rude to sneak up on people.”

There’s a faint curling of the elf’s lips, but he otherwise remains expressionless as he steps closer. “The last time you entered this forest you were starving, or so you claimed. And yet you didn’t shoot the stag. Why?”

The question takes him off guard. It’s something he’s had time to ponder over in the months since first seeing the animal, and yet he’s no clearer to his answer. Instead, he blinks at the elf before him. “You’re not wearing your crown.”

“No,” says the King. “I am not.”

“Run out of flowers, did you?” Bard clamps his mouth shut, suddenly remembering himself.

Daring to glance at the other elf, he’s astonished to see a grin, flashing sharp in the mottled light beneath the trees. “Impertinent thing, aren’t you?” 

Shoulders stiff with tension he offers a short bow. “I apologise.”

The elf flicks away the gesture with a sharp gesture. “Do not lie to me. Empty words,” he hisses, “are far more offensive than any truth you could possibly say.”

Swallowing uncomfortably, Bard nods. His words always have had a tendency to run away from him. It’s landed him in an unusually large amount of trouble over the years, and earned him quite the reputation in Laketown. Never before, though, has anyone in authority found amusement in his sharp words and offense in platitudes. That the much feared Elven-king should do so is thoroughly perplexing. 

“You still haven’t answered my question.” The elf continues, stepping closer as if nothing has happened. His movements are smooth, almost as if he floats across the ground, his robes sweeping behind him. “Tell me.” he commands.

The stag, Bard remembers, and frowns in thought. “I don’t rightly know.”

The weight of the king’s expectant silence makes his stomach churn with anxiety, and meeting the elf’s gaze Bard is arrested by that pale stare. 

It’s like looking into mirror, or at the shimmering silver of the long lake in the moonlight. Except instead of seeing your own reflection, the universe stares back, endless and overwhelming. He feels small and vulnerable, striped utterly bare, like he hasn’t been since he was a young boy sitting at his mother’s knee. It is an extremely disquieting feeling, and after a brief moment Bard has to look away.

Turning his back, he takes a shaking breath as he tries to regain some semblance of himself. As he lets the soft sounds of the forest slow his tripping heartbeat, the realisation comes to him.

“It was you.” He breathes, turning sharply to face the elf once more. “It was, wasn't it?”

The pale haired being remains as still as a statue. Bard steps closer, looking closely now, and all of a sudden he knows he’s right. Or not quite right but near the mark none the less. "Or...something to do with you anyhow."

The king studies him quietly, his gaze travelling over Bard, flicking over his worn clothes, and lighting briefly on the longbow over his back. "You have keen eyes, for a mortal." He allows.

“But how -?”

“What is your name?” the Elven-king interrupts. 

Some warning whispers across his heart, and a memory stirs. ‘Do not give your full name,’ they used to say, ‘for to name a thing is to have power over it.’ Suspicious twaddle, he used to think. Yet beneath the green canopy of the great forest, he feels a flutter of suspicion. "What is yours?" He dares instead.

The elf’s thin mouth curves in the slightest hint of a smile, as if Bard and all his innermost thoughts are as clear as a summer day. And perhaps to a being such as this, Bard muses, they are. Who knows what is true of the old stories. 

"Thranduil Oropherion, King of the Greenwood." The elf says finally, giving a condescending bow of his head. 

Bard is so surprised by the answer that he finds himself responding before he can stop himself. “Bard, of Lake Town.” He clamps his mouth shut stubbornly after that. Perhaps it is enough - it’s true, after all, if not the whole truth. He purposely doesn’t give his father’s name.

“Bard,” the elf says softly, as if testing the name upon his tongue, and the man feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle uneasily. 

With every passing second Bard is certain that he made a dreadful mistake in coming into the forest. Now that he’s here though, he firms his resolve. “I owe you thanks,” he tells the elf, who looks at him with open curiosity. “For your gift spared the lives of my children, and many of my friends.”

Before he can rethink it, he removes the bag and holds it out.

The elf doesn’t move.

Still holding the bag with it’s humble gifts inside, he feels suddenly foolish and unsure. There’s a stillness to the pale haired being, that abruptly reminds him of a great bird of prey, sighting a mouse. He puts them on the ground before them and has to resist the urge to snatch them back up and run.

"My daughter helped me with some of it," he explains self consciously, and the elf turns to gaze at him curiously.

The elf tilts his head slightly, but makes no move towards the bag. “You should leave before dark falls,” is all he says.

Dismissed, Bard hovers another minute uncertainly before with a slight nod of his head, he spins on his heel and walks away.


	9. Chapter 9

When he sails back down the river, dark has fallen, and the lights of Laketown reflect across the surface of the water like fiery stars pulled from the heavens. It is a sight that never fails to stir him, and he treads with a light step up the boards to his house, humming a ditty as he goes.

He lets himself in the front door to find that there’s a contingent of guards waiting for him. Astrid stands in one corner, eyes flashing an unspoken warning as she hushes a fussing Bain, and Sigrid peers out with wide eyes from behind her mother’s skirts.

Bard takes a deep breath and feels his good mood evaporate. “I should hope you have a good reason for disturbing my family.”

Some of the guard shift and look about uncomfortably, refusing to meet his eye. A sandy haired young man who Bard is unfamiliar with refuses to be cowed. 

“The Master has ordered you attend him immediately.”

Bard tries to not let his suspicion show too clearly. “Has he now?” he asks idly, dropping his pack from his back. He leaves his bow slung over his shoulders however, as he makes his way further into the house. He drops a kiss on Astrid’s cheek and she flicks a curious glance at him before turning watchfully back to the intruders in their house. “Well I’m afraid he’ll have to wait.” He continues, running a soothing hand down little Bain’s back who continues hiccupping tearfully. “My wife has worked very hard to prepare my dinner. I should hate for it to go cold.”

The sandy haired soldier puffs out his chest and frowns. “I’m afraid we must insist.”

Bard presses a kiss to Sigrid’s head who is looking at him with her large soulful eyes. He tweaks her nose and throws her a wink, before turning back to the guard. “I take it you’re not married. If you were you’d realise what a perilous thing it is you ask.”

One of the older guards, Eban, hastily smothers a laugh.

Astrid shifts, hoisting Bain up further on her hip above the swell of her pregnant belly as she follows his cue. “And what urgent business could the Master possibly have with my husband at such a late hour?”

“That is not for us to know, m’am. We’ve our orders to bring him to the House as soon as he appears.” 

Bard shares a long look with Astrid, holding a silent conversation with her. Placing another kiss on her forehead he squeezes her hand briefly. “Keep that stew warm for me. I’ll be back afore long.”

Her mouth tightens in an unhappy moue but she nods firmly. “Don’t be overlong. The meat will toughen.” And beneath the innocuous words bard can hear the unspoken I love you, and be careful.

He flashes her a small smile, before turning on his heel and leaving, hearing the clomp of heavy boots following him down the path, wending their way through the town until they approach the grand hall that sits in the middle of town. 

They march through the large double doors to a room awash in light. The fireplace crackles merrily and hundreds of candles cover the space in a wasteful display. Everything about the great hall lauds the opulence of its owner over his visitors. In the lower town candles are a luxury, and Bard knows many a family that hoards the burnt down remnants to melt and reuse later. Bard knows the Master is a man motivated purely by material means, but such disrespect and wastefulness aggravates terribly. 

"Ahh, barge man!"

Bard tamps down his irritation and nods his head in the tiniest of bows. "You called?"

"Yes, yes!” The portly man leans back in his chair, his shirtfront straining against his girth. “It would seem we've quite an issue, hm.”

“Issue?” Bard asks, confused.

The Master tuts. “Your recent…forays into the forest.”

Bard frowns, thoroughly perplexed. “I don’t follow.”

“You’ve been seen. Conspiring with the elves.” Comes a new voice from the recesses of the room.

“Alfrid.” Bard greets cautiously. “You’ve been spying on me.”

“And a good thing too!” Blusters the Master. “What scheme are you concocting, hm?! Well we’re on to you, bargeman! Oh yes! Most suspicious, coming and going in and out of that forest! We’ve all heard the tales, so just how are you still alive, hm? Most suspicious.”

“What the Master means,” Alfrid intervenes silkily, “Is that there are none who’ve returned from that forest successfully in some time. The Master however, in his extreme generosity is willing to overlook your transgressions in lieu of your particular skills. To better assist the town, of course.”

“Assist the town?” Bard asks disbelievingly. 

“Yes,” the Master says. “You see Berd –“

“Bard.”

“It’s an expensive business, hm, running these shipments up and down. See, the tariffs for the wine shipments to the forest are somewhat, hm…outdated."

Bard can feel his eyes bug with incredulity. Outdated? They're some of the heftiest fees Bard has ever seen. They’re fortunate the elves are as fond of the wine as they are, as most would outright refuse the exorbitant fees Laketown places on any shipment from Dorwinion.

The Master smiles at him brightly, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “See, if we increase the fees – we’ll be in a much better position to improve the town. You could help us with that. We need someone to take a message to the elven-king, and what with your ...friendly relations, it would seem you are the perfect candidate!”

“I’m unable to assist you," Bard tells them, feeling a sweep of relief. “I have no authority to be such a messenger, me being a simple bargeman and all. I would hardly be a fit messenger for someone as…important, as yourself."

“Hmm. A quandary to be sure!” the Master hums. “Ah! Here is a neat solution. Congratulations, bargeman. You're now a captain of the guard of Lake-town!”

Bard can’t believe he’s heard it right. “What.”

“Purely a ceremonial position of course. You’ll have no real authority over the guards, but the elves don't need to know that!” The Master and Alfrid share a laugh at this, but Bard still struggles to find his tongue.

“No this –“

“Here! Take this here message to the Elven-king.” The Master continues obliviously, shoving a thick piece of crinkled and stained parchment with an imprinted wax seal into Bard’s hand forcefully. “And make sure you do not leave until he agrees to our terms!”

“He won’t listen to – “

The Master turns suddenly serious, his eyes glittering darkly. “And you’d better not fail us, bargeman. If you do... Well. It would be such a shame for your young children to lose their father. That forest is so very treacherous after all….”

Before Bard is able to formulate a retort two guardsmen take him by the arm and escort him out of the great hall. Stumbling down the steps he manages to catch his balance at the bottom, and hears the large double doors slam shut behind him.

Standing in the dark town square he wonders just how it is that his life has no longer become his own.


	10. Chapter 10

Bard steps cautiously off his ship, looping the mooring line over a nearby rock and making fast. A contingent of elves stands on the shore awaiting him, and the Master’s missive feels like a lead weight where it rests, tucked carefully in his breast pocket.

He gives a cautious nod of greeting to the small group - six in total, garbed in shades of green and brown and their weapons displayed clearly on their persons, who stand motionless on the bank. Amidst the cluster of dark hair a shock of bright blonde stands apart, and for a brief fleeting moment Bard thinks it’s the Elven-king himself, but he realises quickly he is mistaken.

Blonde hair they may have in common, and there’s something in this one’s bearing that is similar but that’s where similarities end. The elf before him has eyes that are a richer shade of blue, and he appears younger somehow. Though, Bard thinks wryly, with elves it’s somewhat difficult to tell.

The elf steps forward and returns his small nod. “You’re expected. The king awaits your presence.” he says, with a small gesture toward the forest.

Bard blinks, stunned. “And how is it that the king knew to expect me?”

The elf simply gives him an inscrutable look before turning and heading into the trees. “Come. We will provide you with an escort.”

Left with little choice, Bard follows the retreating figure.

They do not go deep into the forest, instead staying near the river, the water roaring loudly as it rushes over nearby rapids and providing a noisy accompaniment to their silent trek.

As they continue, Bard looks about himself in wonder. Already the forest feels different to his previous forays; brighter and airier somehow. Here and there the occasional leaf floats to the ground in a gentle curtain, and the crisp air invigorates, lending a spring to his otherwise travel weary step. Slowly he becomes aware of the calls of birds, and now and then small animals scurry through the undergrowth at their approach. The gnarled and twisted trunks begin to give way to groves of elegant grand beech trees, the sun sparkling as it shines off their bright green foliage and dappling the floor beneath their feet.

“It’s so different here,’ Bard muses, amazed.

“Yes,” the pale-haired elf answers, and Bard realises with a start that he must’ve said it aloud. “You have stepped within the boundaries of our realm. You see before you the forest as it should be.”

“As it should be?” Bard questions curiously.

The elf runs a hand sadly over a nearby trunk. “Before the shadow came, this forest bore another name. Greenwood, it was called then, and we hope to name it so again one day. The elves have done what we can to slow the spread of the dark that infests the southern reaches, but…” the elf trails off, shaking his head sadly.

Bard looks around the bright forest and tries envision what it must’ve been like to witness your home slowly destroyed and turned into something to fear. “I hope you succeed. I for one would like to see that.” He tells the elf sincerely, looking about. “It’s beautiful here.”

When he turns back the elf is watching him, as if weighing the weight of his words and looking for any falsehoods. After a long moment the elf turns away again. “Come,” he says again, but his tone is warmer, and friendlier than before. “We are almost to the halls.”

A few minutes later the sound of rushing water grows louder once more, and they suddenly emerge from a break in the trees to see a long narrow bridge spanning across the Forest River, running in a ferocious torrent below. Across the other side of the bridge a large pair of ornate doors are flung wide, and a great cave system can faintly be seen within the shadowed recess.

They make their way through the doors and Bard finds himself in a large airy cavern, with great pillars of rock sprawling high overhead like thickets of trees. Through these labyrinthine corridors he follows his guide, their path lit by strange suspended lanterns, floating from the ceiling and twinkling like stars.

They stop before the Elven-king, who sits on a throne of carven wood, it’s thorny branches reaching greedy fingers into the sky. Upon his brow is a crown of green oak leaves, cunningly woven into the cascade of his shimmering blond hair. But it’s his eyes that once again arrests Bard’s attention. Meeting that gaze feels like falling; like looking into mirror, but instead of seeing your own reflection the universe stares back.

Beneath that gaze he feels small and vulnerable, as he hasn’t been since he was a young boy sitting at his mother’s knee. It is an extremely disquieting feeling, and after a brief moment Bard looks away. He offers a slight bow. “My lord Thranduil.”

“Bargeman.”

“It’s Ba-”

“Bard of Laketown. I remember. Or should I address you as Captain, now?”

It’s the second reference to his conversation with the Master and he stares for a long moment at the elf. “How is it that you know that?”

The elf waves a hand negligently at the question. “There is little that occurs this side of the mountains that escapes my notice.”

The elven-king turns to the young blonde elf at Bard’s side, speaking to him briefly in their liquid tongue. The young elf bows before leaving without glancing backwards, but Bard sees something in their brief exchange that surprises him.

“He’s your son?”

Thranduil turns his attention back to him, and there’s a flicker of surprise beneath that otherwise inscrutable mask. The elf tilts his head and regards Bard silently for a while before a faint smile curls his lips. Standing he sweeps down the stairs, his robes flowing like water behind him. “Come,” he beckons, and exits the room through a previously unnoticed side passage.

Left with little choice Bard follows.

He follows through winding paths, and down quiet corridors, until they reach a large wooden door.

Behind the door is large living space. The high stone ceiling is carved with ornate, winding branches, detailed leaves hang off the edges, splayed out in stone splendor. The room is accented with dark wood and thick carpets made from, what he can only assume are fine, rare material. A large bay window opens onto a magnificent view of the forest canopy, and a grand old table stands before it, a light repast laid upon its polished surface. Against the other side of the room a large fireplace sits before two sumptuous red armchairs.

The space is so unexpected that he stands, marvelling at it’s finery when he notices another door. Through it’s shadowed opening he can see the outline of a large canopied bed, it’s quilted surface embroidered with fine detail.

It’s the grandest thing Bard has ever seen, and certainly a far cry from his humble home.

“This will be your room for the night, if you have need of anything - “

Bard turns to stare at the elf, perplexed. “My room? No, I’m heading back to Laketown.”

Thranduil merely arches an eloquent brow and tells him as if speaking to a child, “it will take some time to formulate a reply suitable for the Master and his… demands. You might as well spend it in comfort.”

“But - “

 

“I was under the impression,” the elf starts slowly, eyes narrowed in thought, “that you were to await for a return missive. If this is not the case then…”

 

He can feel his teeth grinding with irritation, and from the amusement on the elf’s face Bard can tell his irritation has been noted. “Fine. One night, but I must away early. My family will be expecting me.”

Thranduil tips his head concession. “As you wish.”

They stand at an impasse for a moment, before the elf steps close. Bard blinks and has to stop himself from automatically backing up. He stands his ground, feeling his skin prickle as he meets Thranduil’s gaze.

There’s a challenge in that glance that Bard refuses to back down from. The tension stretches between them, neither willing to yield the moment until at last the Elven-king lowers his gaze.

Bard sucks in a breath, as if surfacing suddenly from deep water. Thranduil raises a long fingered hand, trailing it gently down Bard’s chest - his clever fingers slipping beneath the outer layers of Bard’s fur lined coat to close over crisp parchment.

The elf withdraws his hand, and taps the envelop idly against Bard’s chest. “I’ll endeavour to get you an answer shortly.” And with a dramatic flare of his long robes he disappears back into the halls.

It is only much later that Bard will wonder if he truly saw the small green ribbon tied around a pale elegant wrist.

 

\-----

He stays awake for as long as he’s able, before the long strain of his journey catches up with him. There’s a robe of fine fabric laid out on the bed, but uncomfortable with such finery, Bard forgoes it, shirking his clothes in favour of his britches and the light embroidered bedclothes.

When he awakes, the dark of night lies thick upon the air and dawn is but a fleeting thought in sleeping minds. He stirs, unsure of why he’s awoken when he notices there’s a flickering of light from beneath the door leading to the outer rooms.

He pads on barefeet across chilly stone to the doorway. The large heavy wood opens reluctantly. A fire flickers merrily in the grate, casting dancing shadows across the room and across the figure seated in the large chair before the hearth.

Thranduil glances up from where he’s seated, his hair freed from the restraint of his crown to fall softly about his face. He gestures for the man to enter, a glass of ruby liquor in one hand.

“I did not mean to wake you.” the elf says in a quiet murmur.

Bard shrugs, pulling the door closed behind him. “It is no matter. I feel quite well rested.” And it’s true. He can’t have slept more than a small handful of hours, yet he’s rested as he hasn’t been for many long years.

Thranduil hums and takes a sip from his cup. “I confess I’d forgotten how much rest men require.”

“And elves, I suppose, can exist purely on the idea of sleep and drops of morning dew.”

Thranduil laughs, and the sound bounces around the otherwise silent room. “Something like that.” he concedes. He tilts his head to the nearby table, “your letter for the Master, as promised.”

Bard steps further into the room and looks down at creamy parchment sealed with an elegant leaf design depressed into the vibrant green wax.

As he picks up the parchment he feels a wisp of warm breath drift across his bare shoulder, and he freezes. Thranduil stands behind him - and how he got there so silently and so quickly, Bard does not know - but once again the elf trails a hand gently down Bard’s chest, pausing at a slight scar that mars his ribs from long ago.

“Such contrast,” the elf says, almost to himself. “Strong...stronger than any would give you credit for, and yet housed in such a fragile shell...”

 

[Art by Kimmi](http://scifies.tumblr.com/)

 

Feeling a shiver chase its way down his spine, Bard forces himself to step away and turn to face the elf once more. The elven king’s gaze lies soft and unfocused on some distant point, as if on some long lost memory. Bard wonders not for the first time just how old the being in front of him truly is.

Thranduil stirs, blinking dazedly and sinks back into the chair before the fire. Unstopping the decanter resting on the table, he holds it up with a silent question, and with only a moments hesitation, Bard accepts the invitation.

Taking the proffered cup, and Bard takes a large sip, the liquid bursting with heady flavour across his tongue and rolling easily down his throat. It sits pleasantly in the belly, warming him from within. He brings the glass up to the light to look more closely at the liquid.

“It’s good,” he says with surprise.

The elf smirks at him as he settles back into the chair. “But of course.” he says simply. “As if I would put up with your odious Master and his unreasonable demands for anything less.”

Taking another sip from the glass, Bard sits in the remaining chair, feeling the liquid already begin to go to his head. “I’m surprised you do put up with it,” he confesses suddenly.

The elf hums a tone of agreement. “A nuisance, yes, but he is as a ripple on the surface of a lake - a momentary disturbance only.”

Bard thinks on that for a long silent moment, and spends awhile imagining a world where he can wait out the annoying people in his life, safe in the knowledge that they’ll soon be gone and his life will be free. “It must be nice, to be so sure that people like that will be gone and you will remain.”

“People like him do not last long. His reign will end.” the king says with certainty.

“Not soon enough,” Bard murmurs into his cup, and the elf smirks.

The fire crackles pleasantly, and Bard lets it lull him as he sips at the glass in his hand and enjoys a companionable silence with the elf at his side.

“If you could have anything in the world,” the elf muses suddenly, “What would it be?”

Bard’s head lolls back against the chair and lets his thoughts float, dream-like where they will. “For my children to be happy.” he says after a moments thought. “For them to be safe and well looked after, to never again have to go hungry.”

From across the short distance, the elf’s mercurial gaze glitters intently. “What else?”

He thinks for a while before shaking his head. “There is nothing else.” He says, and it’s true. For every whim he can dream up it seems pale and inconsequential next to the over-riding need to make sure his family is well. “Nothing else would make me happier.”

Thranduil hums as he twirls the stem of a wine glass in his hand, letting the light play on the remaining liquid. “What would you do to see this dream of yours fulfilled?”

“Anything.” He whispers without hesitation, and he feels the truthfulness of the statement settle like a mantle about his shoulders.

"A dangerous statement."

Bard stretches and shifts in the chair to make himself more comfortable, returning his gaze into the hypnotic fire. “P’haps. But I’m not worried.”

"Your love for them is most admirable.” the Elven-king tells him, and there’s respect in his tone. “Such selflessness is a rare trait in these late days."

“It shouldn’t be,” says Bard. “Seems a fairly obvious thing to wish for.”

The elf smiles slightly and does not answer.

The silences stretches between them once more, and Bard turns to study the sharp planes of Thranduil’s face, and his current solemn expression. “What would you wish for?” he asks in a moment of boldness.

The elf looks surprised at his question, before turning thoughtful. “Peace…” he says softly, and Bard has to strain to hear the words. “A modicum of peace.”

“I hope you find it.” Bard tells him, and means it.

The silence seems to stretch before the Elven-king stands in a sudden graceful movement. “It is late. I shall leave you to your rest.”

Bard stands much more clumsily, and offers a small nod of his head. “Goodnight.”

The elf pauses at the door, turning slightly to look at Bard. “Goodnight”, he echoes softly, and is gone.

When dawn breaks, the fireplace is cold and there are no glasses of wine to mark that anyone had sat there the night before. For a moment Bard wonders if he’d dreamed it all, before hurrying through dressing.

The contingent of elves from the day before silently escort him back to the river. An odd feeling gnaws his belly, but unable to place it, Bard says farewell to his escort and sets sail down the river.


	11. Chapter 11

It’s quiet when he arrives home. Suspiciously so. 

Sigrid and Bain are sitting by the hearth fire silently but leap to their feet when he arrives, looks of relief and worry awash over their features. 

He drops his pack by the door as his eyes sweep their small home. “Where’s your Ma and Tilda?”

Bain and Sigrid share a look before Bain tentatively speaks up. “We don’t know. They weren’t here when I got back – we asked around but no ones seen them since this morning.”

He doesn’t need to hear anymore. The Master’s threat trickles icy fingers across his memory, and he spins on a heel and goes out immediately, Bain and Sigrid following as he begins pounding on their neighbours doors. 

No one has seen them since early morning when they were in the market. He tamps down his mounting panic, and refuses to let Sigrid and Bain away from his side. A couple of their friends agree to help, and soon a small search party is making its way through the town. 

A great cry is raised, lights flicking on in neighbouring houses and curious faces poking through doorways. 

Bard runs faster than he’s ever run before, dodging curious townsfolk and everyday detritus. He can hear the pounding feet of Bain and Sigrid following behind, but he’s focussed on where he can see Halvar, crouched low on a pier, pulling a small bedraggled shape from the water.

Heart in his throat he reaches them, collapsing to his knees on the jetty. With shaking hands he pulls Tilda close, pushing her long hair out of her young face. He leans his face close to her mouth and with a cry of relief falls back, feeling the small puff of breath tickling his ear in a steady rhythm.

There’s a cacophony of noise as more and more people become aware of the scene playing out on the pier. Lanterns are hastily lit and brought forth and boots scramble slickly along wet wood as people join the search. Someone hands him a blanket and he gratefully wraps Tilda in it, whispering grateful prayers to the heavens.

Reluctantly, he hands her over to Sigrid, watching as an old woman invites his children into her house, the fire within crackling loudly. “Bain, go help your sister.” Bard says, his voice breaks, raw with stress. Bain wavers a moment, before nodding and following Sigrid inside

Some of the men have gotten their dinghy’s launched onto the water, and lights start flickering across the water in a constellation.

Halvar points to where he found Tilda, and the lanterns are passed in sweeping arcs above the waters surface, searching. Bard jumps into one of the larger craft, a crippling sense of dread lining his stomach and making him nauseous.

With every hour that passes the feeling grows, and he can see the faces around him begin to turn grim.

The moon wheels high overhead, and slowly the first light of dawn begins to spread it’s fingers across the sky in riotous colour, painting the lake surface molten gold.

It is as the light crests the neighbouring mountain that they find her body.


	12. Chapter 12

Everything feels wrong. 

How is he supposed to go on when there a is a part of him missing? How are any of them?

“Such a shame,” the townspeople whisper to one another, heads bowed and eyes averted as he passes. “Such a loss,” they tsk. “Those poor little ones,” others exclaim. Bard hears these conversations and more float before and after his diminished family as they make their way through the town. As if such meagre words can capture the magnitude of grief that has engulfed their lives. Don’t these people know that their world has been utterly shattered? And yet the rest of Laketown seems to find it something worth spectating on, before blithely continuing on with their days. 

He lashes out at a select unlucky few. He knows he shouldn’t snap and snarl, and shortly after doing so he gets angry with himself for his actions. Most of his neighbours have been incredibly supportive and helpful, and more than a few are willing to forgive him for his sharpened tongue and churlish temper. Some of the townsfolk have been sharing their things - food and spare clothes mostly, and a large mourning quilt someone has cobbled together from precious pieces of fabric. He knows his small family has always been well liked, but having sudden visceral proof, sitting innocuously heaped at the door makes his throat go tight and his eyes sting. 

As the days pass into weeks, the local women begin to take the girls under their collective wing, patiently teaching them tricks that Astrid now will never get to. The men of the town offer him what supplies they can or assist him with chores about the place. They wordlessly hand over small tasks and duties to him and Bain, nodding silently at their mumbled gratitude. 

It doesn’t make it alright. Well intentioned or not, the continued looks of sorrow and pity in the eyes of others begins to irritate unpleasantly, and Bard can feel his fists clench at his sides.

Everything they do as a family, and everywhere they turn they’re constantly reminded of her absence. Sigrid simply breaks down in tears one night, hunching over their kitchen table as he’s helping her prepare what used to be one of Astrid’s favourite dishes. Helpless, he gathers her in his arms, wrapping them tight and cries with her. There are no other words or actions that he can provide that makes it better.

They don’t make the dish ever again. 

He feels like it is him that is drowning, floundering helplessly in a tumult of emotion. One minute feeling calm and sure of his footing, and the next overwhelmed and powerless.  
He does what he can for the kids, but he knows it is not enough. 

Sigrid has gone quiet. Her previously sunny and happy demeanour abruptly snuffed like a candle. She moves through her duties with a single-minded focus that Bard envies, and takes over the tasks her mother left unfinished. Once she’s finished these she starts mending the garments of their neighbours, and soon has begun to barter her services as seamstress in exchange for goods and food. 

Bain’s grown sullen and anxious, his young brow furrowing into a near permanent scowl. He spends more time away from home, in whose company Bard doesn’t know but is sure he’d disapprove of. He won’t talk about it, and when Bard confronts him one night he grows mullish and refuses to speak to him for a week. 

Only little Tilda remains unchanged.

Tilda is barely in her third year of life, and doesn’t yet know the enormity of what she’s lost. She is the one bright spark in their small battered family, and they curl themselves protectively around her. Wrapping themselves in providing for her, and seeing to her every need, as she flourishes.

And then there are days where the silence in the house at night grows too much, and Bard cannot stand to stay there. He flees and walks through the town, finding small hitherto unknown alleyways and back roads. Sometimes he searches for Bain. On others, he’ll find a quiet spot on the shore and fire arrow after arrow at a makeshift target. Keeping busy, he’s found, is the best way to stave off the memories. The grief.

He stays until his brow is sheened with sweat, and his arms tremble. On those days he simply can’t face the large empty bed that awaits him.

He doesn’t sleep. He lets exhaustion drop heavily upon him and embraces unconsciousness when it comes. When he can avoid it no longer, he returns to the house he used to call home.

Time flows like a river, moving both faster than thought, and dragging excruciatingly slow. 

All around them the world turns, and life on the Long Lake goes on, and somehow, slowly, Bard and his children stumble along after it.


	13. Chapter 13

Winter arrives with vicious suddenness. The grey clouds roll across the sky as icy fingers race across the lake’s surface, chilling it’s inhabitants to the bone. 

A halt had been placed on goods travelling up river. The Master had been forced to comply, faced suddenly with a lack of willing sailors as the town had rallied behind Bard and his family, supporting them in their darkest hours, and refusing to allow any bullying behavior to befall the grief-stricken family. 

This had not done much to improve the Master’s opinion of Bard and his children, but Bard had found some comfort in the actions of his neighbours. It had been a struggle, but knowing that those around him recognised that struggle and did what they could to support them had been incredibly touching. 

And so it is, that a little over a year since his last fateful journey, that Bard launches his barge down the slipway, and out onto the water, the worn vessel riding low in the water with it’s heavy cargo. 

He’s put it off for as long as he can, but the need for the money and security the job provides has become too great to ignore. So Bard forces himself to shake off the sentiment that’s paralysed him these past months, don’s his worn coat, and sets the sail. 

The way up river seems somber and more profound than he remembers. He can see changes since his last trip; the banks of the river eating into the forest and creating muddy marshland. A few trees have fallen along the banks, their mass of twisted roots presenting soil-stained innards to his curious eye. 

It’s quiet on the river. The gurgling rush of water the only distinct sound. A poignant silence has fallen over this part of the forest. There’s a sense of tension to it though that is unnerving, and Bard makes sure to keep his bow strung and close to hand, an arrow nocked in preparation. 

When he arrives at the drop site he is surprised to see that there is someone already there, waiting for him. 

Thranduil sits upon one of the large boulders near the waters edge, a crown of glossy holly leaves upon his head. Bard hesitates for a moment, before throwing the mooring rope near his feet. “Here. Make fast.” 

The elf raises a disdainful eyebrow before reluctantly stooping to collect the rope. He loops it about a rock and makes an unusual but effective knot. Bard procrastinates, puttering about with the gangplank, and rolling the barrels to the shore. When the last barrel comes to rest he looks up and jumps with fright, clutching his chest. 

Thranduil stands only a few feet before him and is eyeing him with a slight frown. 

“I was...distressed, to hear of your loss.” The elf tells him. 

Bard can feel his jaw clench and he gives a short nod, keeping his hands busy untying the net. 

“You have my condolences.” 

Bard takes a staggered breath and fights back the prick of tears. He clears his throat and says roughly, “your delivery m’lord” and goes to turn away. 

The elf reaches out, faster than thought, and locks deceptively strong fingers about his wrist, holding him in place. 

“You will survive this.” The Elven-king tells him. “You will carry her memory always, and not a day will go by where you do not think of her. But one day those memories will lose their dreadful sting, and you will not just survive. You will live.” 

Bard has no words for him, and after a moment the elf relaxes his grip. He gestures to the bow strapped that is Bard’s constant companion. “May I?” 

Adrift, Bard slowly removes the longbow and hands it over, releasing it slowly. 

Thranduil accepts it graciously and with due reverence, running a careful hand along the long wooden length, before holding it up to the light. “An impressive weapon.” He notes. “Worn, but well cared for.” His eyes flick up to Bard’s face assessingly. 

Shifting slightly, Bard clasps his hands behind him, unsure what point the elf is trying to make. The elf runs a finger over the bowstring and tsks lightly, swiftly unstringing the bow with well-practiced ease. The man starts forward in sudden alarm, but the elf stays him with a look, handing the bow stave back to the man wordlessly. 

Humming, the elf loops the string over one hand, reaching up and carefully separates a few strands of his long golden hair. With a sharp yank the elf pulls the strands free, his humming changing it’s pitch suddenly. Bard is left to watch in wonder, feeling the hairs upon the back of his neck raise in unease. 

With deft movements the elf begins to wind the long strands about the string’s, length, occasionally knotting and braiding a section with care, the wordless tune rising and falling as he does so. 

At last the entire length of string has a piece of hair worked through it, and with a flourish, the Elven-king ties a final knot, his song fading into silence. 

With an imperious gesture, the elf bequeaths the string into Bard’s hands, folding his fingers carefully closed over it. “So you may always find your mark,” he tells him, bowing his head slightly. 

Bard frowns down at the string in his hands, puzzling over the odd wording. Running the string through his fingers he can feel a slight tingling sensation, but when he strings the longbow, the draw feels smooth and strong. 

When he looks up to thank the elf, the king is gone. Bard offers a bow to the empty shoreline before returning to his barge and returning home. 

It is only four years later, that the full consequences of the day make themselves known. 

Since that day on the river bank, Bard has never once gotten lost in the forest again. And in the autumn of the fourth year, Bard’s bow breaks; the string however, stays strong. 

With a single black arrow he find’s his mark. 

And makes his own upon the world.


End file.
